Author Archives: J. A. Nicholl

J. A. Nicholl

The waters soon close dark and velvet-heavy
around a stone big enough to smash a skull,
the ripples torpid as in mud or gravy.
What will it take to clarify these dull,
foetid waters, for our men to reject
The notion that wild animals are as tame
as they; our feral women a foul object
one shudders to give credence to, or name.Read more …

What would you like to do, dear little girl,
When you grow up? Something with animals
Or children, perhaps? Schoolyard love soon palls
And that scary blank expanse you see unfurl—
Look closer: it’s a blueprint for a sort
Of intangible palace you’re supposed to build
Around yourself. Then, at last, when you have willed
It into being (no hurry; women fought

They were sleeping apart after Yusuf had yet again failed to stand up to his parents, who still refused to acknowledge their son’s de facto relationship with her. Maureen had just overheard heard him yet again tactfully and without remonstration decline to be set up with someone more to their liking, who would make him a “good wife.” They would sleep apart that night.

Her bed was a raft out in a pitch black sea reminiscent of an illustration in a book of nursery rhymes from when she was a child. Read more …

There once was a little man. He lived and
Then he died, blood and the contents of his skull
Mixed with the others’. The end. Then how full
Were the streets with candles, hearts of chalk, grand
Monuments all evanescently lit
With the colours of what happened to be
His country’s flag. Oh they were cowardly
Those wicked Brusselaars who dared commit Read more …

Their lunch breaks overlapping, as often happened, Ted was hovering around while Jenna and her friend Dina — these days heavily involved with the campus group that called itself “The Nonviolent Gender Alliance” — discussed whether Jenna might be persuaded to come along too, and if so, who she would bring. Read more …

This story is based on a “creepypasta” entitled “Channel 67” published in a collection edited by Gregory West and Hayley Wicker. Like most such urban legends, the story sounded familiar to me when I read it, although I have not been able to find any other closely similar versions online. Read more …

I see them crowd on crowd they walk the earth Dry, leafless trees no Autumn wind laid bare; And in their nakedness find cause for mirth, And all unclad would winter’s rudeness dare; No sap doth through their clattering branches flow,Whence springing leaves and blossoms bright appear; Their hearts the living God have ceased to know, Who gives the springtime to th’expectant year; They mimic life, as if from him to steal His glow of health to paint the livid cheek; Read more …

Roger sat in the gaming room of his local pub with a dwindling reserve of chips in his cup. The feeling of sinking deeper into the irredeemable with every coin inserted gave him an odd thrill, even though fundamentally he knew it was stupid. That was the point. And it made a fantasy come to life in his mind: If he kept losing he could always go home to his flat, pack a bag or two, jump in the car and just drive–just say goodbye to everything and maybe get a job picking fruit, cash in hand. Forget the credit card companies and live off the grid somewhere. Read more …

It happened on a housing estate in the inner city. A piece of former parkland that had been handed over to developers to build two storey homes, based on the town house concept, for yuppies who’d come along too late to be part of the last gentrification wave. I never would have known such a place existed, though it was a short bike ride away from where I lived. Read more …